


The Strange Case of The Fifty Shades

by JinxxTheInsomniac



Category: Fifty Shades (Movies) RPF, Fifty Shades of Grey (2015), Fifty Shades of Grey - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2018-09-28 02:03:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10065104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinxxTheInsomniac/pseuds/JinxxTheInsomniac
Summary: So I had the crazy idea to rewrite Fifty Shades of Grey with me (An actual human being with actual personality), and actually write Christian Grey so he isn't a complete tool.I'd like to say that I'm pretty outgoing throughout the process of writing these chapters, but they're not really accurate to the book OR the movie (Do you honestly think I want to put myself through that a second time?).Anyways, here's how I think Fifty Shades of Grey would be improved, Enjoy!





	1. I Hate Being a Grownup

**Author's Note:**

> So most of my character is actually me, or at least how I think I am perceived. I'm super sarcastic and am the exact opposite of Anastasia in almost every way. Hopefully I'll add a bit of color to this grey tale of cultish smut. (haha, see what I did there?)  
> Feel free to leave comments and/or quotes that you enjoyed, because your comments feed me and give my lowly life purpose!

My name is Anna Lee. 

Well, that was my alias, anyway. I wasn’t particularly fond of anyone knowing my real name. I suspect that the serial killer documentaries I’d been bingeing in the last days and weeks were the root of my suspicion towards humanity as a whole. 

If I were to describe myself in any specific way, it’d be the literary translation of how Lisa Frank conveyed color and design; a bizarre, unpredictable personality, to match with an equally peculiar style and fashion taste. 

To summarize, I had spiky green and black hair, hazel eyes, and my wardrobe aesthetic tended to swing violently from ‘Gothic Goddess’ to ‘I dressed in the dark’ on an hourly basis. It was a situation I’d come to accept about myself in the long run of things, as it was honestly the choice of my mental status each day to decide exactly how I would present myself. 

For example, if I had suffered an exceptionally rough battle with my chronic insomnia, I tended to grab whatever didn’t smell like expired milk and matched it with my favorite gray hoodie. (The short-hair thing was a memoir to my laziness, as it needed only my fingers to scrub through it and the results would exceed expectations)

Alternatively, if I was able to sleep in for a blessed few extra hours, I tended to pay more attention to the finer details of my person and would maybe choose a pair of leggings that were actually clean, and a shirt that would sorta match, if I was lucky. Don’t worry, I’m only partially kidding. 

Unfortunately, despite leading a rather glamorous life, if I do say so myself, I had the indescribable pleasure of having a shit-immune-system roommate, Kate, who was a bit of an overachiever to put in politest of terms. It wasn’t that I disliked her; she was actually quite a fascinating character study. With a stunning mane of bleach-blonde hair (in desperate need of a root-job, I might add), her bubbly optimism only accentuated her early-bird sleeping schedule. To say that she and I were complete polar opposites would be an understatement. 

I should’ve known it wasn’t a good sign for her not to burst into my room at six a.m. on the dot the week earlier. I woke of my own accord and had proceeded to grab the plastic Tupperware which housed our Lucky Charms horde. (Yes, the sole thing we had in common was our sugary breakfast preferences. Lucky Charms was our meth.) 

Between fingerfuls of the sugary breakfast, I suddenly could hear a raspy coughing, causing me to wince at the undeniable mucus blockages clearly adding to the volume of her cough. 

I grabbed my full-face respirator (What? I dabble in art on the side), yanked some latex-free rubber gloves over my hands, and quietly tapped on her closed door, my attire for that morning being only my Stitch onesie and mismatched socks over my feet. 

“Katie, Katie, bo-batie?” I inquired, praying that she’d respond properly to let me know she was fine and that I was simply hearing nonexistent noises again. I felt selfish for the reasons behind the empathy for my roommate, but more on that later. 

She gave no immediate response, and I opened the door. 

Inside her disgustingly girly room, it was as if a Kleenex factory had ejaculated on her floor. Crumpled tissues resided in patternless disarray along her pink zebra carpet and towering book collections. And in the middle of it all, she laid in all of her glory, face red and feverish while her yellow hair engulfed her pillow and hung in mats. 

“I think I’m dying.” She stated plainly as if it were a casual conversation over breakfast. I gave a disgruntled look beneath the mask. This was not at all a good time to get sick, or to have someone who was, again, an overachiever, to be sick and only have one roommate. 

The other boot was about to drop, and I knew not to celebrate too quickly at the promise of the next few mornings going uninterrupted.

“By interffiew wiff himb is bunday! What am I gonna do if I’mb still not bedder?” She whined pathetically. 

“You’ll be fine! You just gotta focus on getting better!” 

Man, did I suck at providing comfort. 

“Andda… if I amb still sick, cand you bleaz stage the inderffiew? I’ll write all dhe questionds downd and duff, all you haff ta do is read’em--...” 

“Let’s not dwell on the ‘what-ifs’ right now, babe! You’ll be right as rain by Sunday night, I can guarantee it! I’ll grab you some meds and some orange juice and you can go back to sleep, okay?”

“And somb tissues, blease!” She replied lethargically. 

By the nine I was a weak-minded fool when it came to sickies. Kate could’ve said she wanted the head of Justin Bieber served to her on a silver platter, and if she was as sick as she was now, I’d be on the next flight to wherever he was touring next and require only a swiss army knife and a fake mustache. 

I may be a bitch, but I’m a loyal bitch, goddamnit. 

I scooched back into her room clutching the glass of orange juice in my left hand, the fever-reducers in my right, and the dollar-store kleenex box in my mouth. She was used to such animalistic mannerisms as we’d been roommates for almost seven months. 

“Danks, babe.” She exclaimed as she reached eagerly towards the tissue box, tore it open, and blew a rather hefty amount of unspeakableness into four tissues all at once. It wa a good thing that I had seen everything that the internet had to offer in the ‘Disgusting Cringe’ division, as now I was immune to all forms of humanly feasible repulsiveness. 

“Careful. We only got two bucks to last us until my next paycheck, and this is our last tissue box.” 

She held it to her breast as if having accepted a most gracious gift.

“I’ll tressur et alwaysh.” She breathed before taking the meds and disappearing back beneath her flowery magenta coverlet, taking the tissue box with her. 

But now, to more pressing matters. 

I knew that by Monday she was scheduled to interview one of the sponsors for the State University she and I attended. As she was one of the head-writers for the college newspaper, the manager of that branch of the school had Kate bowing to her every beck and call. I would almost feel sorry for her if I didn’t care about the newspaper, or the literary-retarded inbreeds who worked there (Excluding Kate. She was an exceptional writer and was hoping to publish one of her manuscripts in a few years. I already told her I would buy the first copy). If there was a god out there, he wouldn’t keep Kate sick through Monday. As I finished collecting the dozens upon dozens of used tissues and dumping them into the basket which she used as a trashcan, I silently begged for whoever who heard me that they would make Kate feel well enough to perform that interview by Monday. I didn’t want to be in an environment that was so nice it’s IQ dropped slightly even before my feet could step over the threshold. It was too prim and proper, and far too fragile for my obnoxious, borderline animalistic, mannerisms. I didn’t want to be forced into a finely-ironed suit, pencil skirt, and flats, and I especially didn’t want to have to cover the green in my hair with washable black hair-dye in order to look ‘professional’. That was my own personal hell, and Kate knew it far better than anyone else. 

All the same, loyalty comes before pride, and if she asked me to stand in for her, I would do it. But Lord knows that I’d complain long after the ordeal was taken care of. 

Kate, you’d best get better before Monday morning, or I’ll kill you.


	2. Normal is not the Norm, It's Just an Itchy Uniform

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Onward!

The days ticked by like moments, and with Kate showing no signs of immediate recovery in the near future, I had accepted the role of her nanny. I brought her extra pillows, her laptop, magazines, her dozens of notebooks, and I even drew a bath for her with her favorite scented bath bomb frothing merrily as she waddled into the bathroom, her blanket wrapped around her scrawny figure. Wasn’t I the best roommate ever?

But finally, Monday morning rolled into existence, and I had to accept the fact that I couldn’t back out of hosting the interview with the high and mighty Christian Grey. I’d promised Kate, albeit through intense coercion, but I always stuck to my promises, and I wasn’t about to put a black spot on my record.

I had to wear panty-hoes. Panty-hoes.

If that doesn't trigger some harrowing memory of your pre-pubescent life, then I don't know what will. But to put in a way that can provide an explanation to the guys reading, the last time I could recall such a condemning string of words in my lifetime, was when my mother insisted that I attend church while wearing them in order to exhibit some semblance of modesty. They not only constricted your legs to assume some unspoken modelesque expectation for the desired circumference of your thighs and calves, they were also about as thin as a moth's wing and stretchy as a hair elastic (Which means it would only go so far before everything went to shit). With that being said, they would tear and catch on anything they merely brushed against, which then would render them unbefitting for public scrutiny, and more money would go into replacing the ruined stockings. 

I had prayed before even leaving my car that the local department store wouldn’t have them in stock, wordlessly pleading that this was naught more than a past phase and now finding good panty-hoes were immensely hard to come by. 

But sure enough, as if the universe just wanted to ruin my life a little bit more, the department store did, in fact, have a kiosk full of panty-hoes. Kate, of course, demanded that I buy them to cover my pale, scarred legs which resisted tanning like it was the plague.

I chose an aquamarine cami, and then a black blazer which, admittedly, gave me a rather nice hourglass shape when I tried it on in the dressing room. The skirt was also black, and my favorite non-combat boots concluded the rather uncomfortably rigid uniform.

The morning before, with the interview itself being set at nine-thirty, on the dot, I forced myself to wake up at six in order to have enough time to cover my electric green stripes of hair with the washable ebony hair-color. The scent of dye was as euphoric as it was depressing, the sharp scent allowing me to recall the exciting memories of getting a new hair shade, and with it, a self-esteem boost.

I finally slicked back the spikes of my hair, letting out a disgusted moan of disappointment as I finally looked like what I society regarded as ‘normal’ or ‘professional’. I didn’t like this look, in case you couldn’t tell already.

In my opinion, the style made me look like the uptight busybody you’d see at Starbucks shrieking obscenities at the cashier because her order had only seven shots of espresso when she specifically asked for eight. We all know what I’m talking about.  
I walked out of the room slowly, noting how slippery the panty-hoes made my feet inside my shoes. I prayed silently that my ankles would be secure enough to avoid any accidents.

“Here they are, all the questions required for the paper. I’m counting on you...” She urged with a weak smile, her nose starting to resemble that of Rudolph’s. 

On the bright side, at least now Kate could talk coherently, though she continued to run a fever and had joint aches which weakened her mobility substantially. She was going to go to the doctors that afternoon as soon as I got home and could drive her (Ain’t no way in hell I was gonna let her Uber to the Doctor’s Office, as she had planned on doing.).

“Thanks.” I said in a thick tone, begrudgingly taking the clipboard beneath my arm. I made a show of stomping around like a man in heels, as I still felt entirely out of place wearing the professional garb.

“Hey,” Kate chortled from the couch, her half-lidded eyes glimmering with amusement, “You look far better than I would if I was wearing it. It even makes your butt look good.” She added behind a tissue.

“Stop looking at my ass, woman. That’s sexual harassment!” I replied with a devilish wink, to which she laughed all the more. It was an inside joke from a past retailing experience, but we vowed never to forget it for its hysterically over-dramatic protagonist. I’ll let you figure out what happened.

As I neared the entry to our oh-so-humble residence, I gave one final look back, as if playing the star-crossed lover in a western.

“Are there any final words of parting?” I asked dramatically, my hand grazing over the door handle. God, I needed a 5 Hour Energy or I was going to pass out.

“Don’t forget to smile.” She said, holding her thumb up with enthusiasm while her other hand clutched the remote like a scepter. I rolled my eyes and left quickly, feeling like a gorilla stuffed in a dress. I could probably write sonnets about how much I despised how the frock hugged all the wrong places, but I think I made my point. My feet continued to slip and slide against the smooth inside of my boots, and I had to hope and pray I wouldn’t slip while going down a flight of stairs, or something. I was beginning to understand why the newer generations opted out of continuing on with the panty hoe fad as previous generations had. These things were like walking on black ice with sneakers! 

The address that Kate had scrawled for me on a post-it note declared that it wasn’t more than a fifteen-minute drive from our humble abode. I slid into my car and sped off in a matter of moments, despising the fact that instead of a huge tote back as I typically would use to carry my essentials, I had to instead opt for a clutch, which barely had enough room for my wallet and cellphone at the same time. This was going to suck.

There was no real drama to reference during that ride, aside from the regular hustle and bustle of regular rainy Seattle during the weekday. It was when I’d finally located the street where Grey Industries were supposedly situated, that I parked and began the hike towards the famed tower.  
The sign was enough for me to start cackling under my breath.

‘Grey House’. Not ‘Grey Industries’, as I’d dubbed it. ‘Grey House’...

“What, was ‘White House’ taken, Mister Grey?” I muttered under my breath as I straightened and made my way into the modern, gloomy establishment. After all, I needed to be professional, and couldn’t waltz into such a prestigious place cackling like a lunatic fresh from the asylum.

In comparison with these wealthy snobs flitting along the grand lobby, my ensemble was right at home. The secretary chattered incoherently into a phone while simultaneously scribbling something on a sheet. I didn’t feel like interrupting her, knowing that the extensive caffeine-high she was probably experiencing had probably diminished her ability to have any understanding of the real world around her.

My head itched, but I couldn’t scratch it unless I wanted my fingertips to look as if I touched my soul. Way to go, box-brand dye.

The directory situated at the front of the elevator provided the exact floor on which the namesake of this place resided. I didn’t waste a moment to contemplate fondly the golden cursive engravings of the directory (I didn’t want to look like a tourist), and instead called the elevator and waited patiently for the expensively furnished technology to take me to my destination.

I grabbed my phone, which, if I hadn’t iterated earlier, was a flip-phone from the prehistoric ages, and checked the time. 9:29.50. Yep, didn’t think my average tardiness in school would abandon me in an alternate, professional setting.

But to go back to my phone, of course, being a college student, one cannot simply buy top-notch electronics and other such wondrous luxuries, so you’d have to stick to the basics. My dad had bought it for me when I was 10 (after I’d just started to make some friends), and it still worked, even though the amount of shit I put it through on a daily basis would’ve otherwise annihilated any other name brand technology.

You’d think that, since my family was able to afford to have me live in one of the more economically destroyed cities of the United States, that they’d also be able to pay for a phone that could go on the internet for longer than 6 minutes without completely obliterating my minute-rations, but you’d be wrong. Oh well, it’s not like I need to be like the cool kiddies, anyway with their fancy cellphones that can listen to music while reading a cliche smut fanfiction on the web, and still have just enough memory to play a quick game of Angry Birds. Nope, that wasn’t at all beneficial to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are about to get funky, as if they haven't already. HEUHUHEUUHUH


	3. What could POSSIBLY go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super long chapter coming up this time! Sorry I didn't see anywhere I could've taken a break... Enjoy!

The elevator gave a surprisingly loud beep as it had reached the penthouse and sluggishly pulled back the steel doors. I gingerly stepped out, coming into the peripheral vision of two secretaries who, in my honest opinion, could’ve been Victoria’s Secret models. I’m not fully gay, but in all honesty I would be for them if they’d propositioned for me.

“Miss Kavanagh?” One of them inquired, which I almost didn’t register. It might’ve been the 5 hour energy I’d basically inhaled ten minutes earlier, but I felt like a marionette being pulled by the sudden shot of caffeine through my system. All I knew was as long as I didn’t look mindlessly intoxicated, I’d be fine.

“May I take your coat?” The woman asked politely, her bony arms reaching out towards me expectantly. God, woman, buy me dinner first!

“No, thank you.” I replied cheerfully, instantly realizing I had to tone it down or risk being made a fool out of. The massive panda splotch mural stared on benevolently as I forced my lips to curve upward into a curt smile.

“Mister Grey will see you now.” The woman murmured robotically, causing a nervous tremor to ripple down my spine. There was something in her voice, almost as if she was being forced to say that one phrase to anyone who’d come up into the room inquiring about their boss. That’s when I noticed all their uniforms; the same neutral tint of stormy clouds. They all looked like robots.

I tried not to let it freak me out too much. Stupid horror documentaries (Curse you, Rob Dyke!) .

“Okay.” I replied without too much hesitance as another woman--, I mean, another Victoria’s Secret supermodel strode forward, her smile almost tattooed on her flawless complexion.

“This way, please.” She said, the tight bun of her hair resembling an unbaked cinnamon roll as I followed behind the woman childishly.

The corridor was painted a blinding white, and I felt almost like a stain amid the pure tone. I had to force myself not to stare too long at the seemingly recent paint-job. I bet they had a strictly enforced ‘No Children Allowed’ policy, and the sign would soon be saddled beside the ‘No Childlike Adults Allowed, Either’ placard within an hour of my arrival.

The tall, skinny woman and I arrived at a massive pair of mahogany doors, and it felt almost like I was about to face the final boss in a video game. I fantasized Bowser standing at the other side of the door, fireballs at the ready. In all honesty, I think I would rather anyone but the obviously conceited business-man to be waiting at the other side of that door. I mean, who forces all their employees to look the same and wear matching grey uniforms without any nametags or semblance of identification?! (I only just noticed the lack of identification less than a minute ago, further confirming my theory that they were robots and I was days away from waking up in an ice-bath with my kidneys stolen.)

The woman presented the door with one arm as if she was forbidden from touching the silver handles without Christian Grey’s expressed permission. I didn’t care as much as I probably should’ve, and being the headstrong she-human that I am, promptly pushed against the heavy doors to allow myself in.

Of course, this was the exact moment where life decided to throw yet another curve to my already daily struggle of existing.

Remember when I’d said that my panty-hoes were making the soles of my boots extremely slippery? Well, this is where the slipperiness caught me by surprise, and I ate shit against the marble flooring.

The Supermodel in the corridor didn’t lift a manicured finger to help me, and I had to suppress a sarcastic remark over my shoulder. The silence in the room being disturbed by my graceless tumble caused a knot of embarrassment to clench in my stomach. Great first impressions, girl, way to go, I thought with a snarl as I got up again, brushing down the hem of my skirt.

The walls were made entirely of windows, and I was only just made aware of the approaching silhouette of a suited man approaching me. I immediately assumed he was probably Mister Grey’s butler. He, after all, appeared to have a fetish for the modelling industry representatives.

“Miss Kavanagh, are you alright?” The taller man inquired, and I gave a nervous smile. All I could say was he was a better help than that blonde bitch on the other side of the door. If she’d had her nametag, and didn’t look like all the other female workers in the building, I would’ve confronted her later on with a few choice words at the ready. Like, ‘you’, and… ‘are’... and, ‘a jerk’.

Yea, those choice words fit nicely together.

The man extended his hand as if attempting to help me up from my spill, but since I was already standing perfectly well once more, I simply took his hand in my own and gave it a shake. After all, my dignity was stopped at the front door, the least I could do was spare his.

“Christian Grey.” He introduced himself. I had to keep myself from responding with a bewildered ‘really?’ as his chocolate gaze stared down at me.  
Well whaddaya know, instead of a fat, miserly man with thin white hair being combed over a spotted, balding head, Christian Grey was just another supermodel. Damn I needed some water.

“Anna Lee, sir. Kate has the flu, so she asked me to fill in for her.”  
Look at me adulting all over the place!

“I see,” He replied, giving me a once-over as he kept his expression neutral and unreadable, “so you’re studying Journalism as well, then?”

“No,.. Psychology, Fine Arts, and Literature.” I replied, my voice dwindling down into slight stutters, an awkward smile causing my lips to curl upwards.

What? He was hot as all hell. A girl would have to have no ability to see, hear, or touch in order to deny that simple fact.

“I see,” He muttered in a distracted tone before turning towards his desk, “I only have ten minutes; please have a seat.”

I gritted my teeth, the sarcastic part of my body struggling to state that in order for me to have a seat, I would have to take it and leave. It would’ve been better if he’d said to sit on the seat, but then again, that was a peculiar statement--.

My nervous footsteps clopped behind him and I sat down on the plush white lounging seat. Thank god I didn’t have my period that morning, anything white tended to be reviled by me.  
The silence of the office prompted me to avert my gaze from the imposing silhouette sitting relaxedly before me. Why couldn’t he have any semblance of white noise playing in the background? My nerves were devouring me alive!

I turned to the clipboard Kate had given me, and detached the pen from the flimsy corner.  
Upon attempting to get the ink going in the pen, I instantly realized that this was one of my former favorite pens which I’d worn down to a dry, dead pulp, and had intended to throw it away earlier. I guess I forgot.

The Business Man seemed to read my frazzled mind and rose from his chair to circle his desk and hand me one of his five sharpened pencils. Well, that was a relief, I thought after having been debating just how painful it would be to use a bobby-pin and my own blood as a makeshift writing utensil.

“Thanks.” I said with yet another forced smile. I had to make the guy like me, after all.

Ten minutes.

He leaned against his desk, watching me like I was a monkey presented for his amusement. I already felt like a fool, man, I didn’t need anymore reason to hate myself today!

“Ready?” I asked all too eagerly, mentally cursing myself upon replaying my statement.

“Whenever you are.” He replied in a deep tone of voice. He didn’t seem impatient, which was kind of nice.

The sickly scrawl of Kate’s handwriting looked like ancient runes, and I had to struggle for a moment to understand exactly what she was having me say.

“You are remarkably young to have amassed such an emperor-- Empire. To what do you owe--.”

“My success?”“Yep.” I said in an

“Yep.” I said in an offhandish drawl. Kate was dead from the moment her fever was gone.

“Is that really what it says?” He inquired with a thick tone of amusement.

“Yep.” I said again, looking directly at him with my ‘Serial Killer’ face. If he thought he could sass me he had another thing coming.  
He seemed to detect my impatience, however subtle, and began what sounded like a rehearsed speech.

“Business is about people, and I've always been good at people. What motivates them, and what inspires them. I've always found that the harder I work, the more luck I seem to have. The key to my success has been in identifying talented individuals and harnessing their efforts.”

‘Thank you DJ Khaled for influencing yet another human.’

“Fascinating, so it seems your motives are slightly influenced by OCD.” I murmured subconsciously before a rush of goosebumps overtook my skin, alerting me to what I’d just let slip. “Did I say that out loud? Whoops.”

If he was amused, he had a talent for suppressing it.

“Not OCD, I just like the control. I have control over a lot of things, Miss Lee.”

The way he said it caused my skin to crawl. He could take control of my masochistic ass anytime, I thought with a mental giggle.

Now, if he could just stand in place for longer than three seconds, that’d be fantastic.

I read out an intensely boring question to which he gave a one-sentence answer. Christian seemed to be thinking heavily on something, and my Psychologist brain was dying to know what exactly distracted the Abercrombie model, so.

“Do you have any interests outside of work?”

“I enjoy various physical pursuits.”

I resisted the urge to repeat back the next question that Kate had left me.

The girl had just dug her grave.

“Are you gay?” I asked plainly as if this was just a calm, friendly conversation between associates at a Panera.

He didn’t say anything, and that prompted me to look up. If his gaze could be visualized, it would’ve been a long, transparent beam. I could practically feel his eyes lingering on the top of my head, focusing all too carefully on me.

Fuck off, creep-o, I already endured too much of this shit on public transport.

“No, Anna, I’m not gay.” He said casually after the long moment.  
Lord almighty, he needed to be an Audible contributor.

“Enough with reading the notes,” He murmured quietly before, at last, resigning to sit in the empty chair which was the twin to my own. “Ask me something you, yourself, want to know.”

The knowledge from my numerous Psychology class lectures swam through my head like millions of particles. This guy was really smart, but there was something hiding beneath it all. Perhaps something that Cognitive Behavioral Therapy could solve? I set the clipboard aside in the last remaining empty seat, nervously brushing down at my knee-length pencil skirt. Remind me to burn it later.

“From watching you circle your desk and have the inability to stay in one place, I’d assume that you possibly have Adulthood ADHD or GAD, am I right?”

Christian Grey was speechless at my inquiry, probably mulling over just how to reply.

Behind us, the door was thrown open. It was the blonde girl, and she’d finally was able to prove that she had some semblance of muscle disguised along her twiggy limbs.

“Mr. Grey, your next meeting is in the conference room.” She stated calmly.

“Cancel it, please, we’re not finished here.” He replied without even a second to think.

“Yes, sir--.”

“No, it’s okay. Don’t miss a meeting on my account.” I murmured, picking up the clipboard and setting the pencil back in its place on his desk. Shit, I’d absently chewed on it. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Did I mention I have anxiety?

“But I want to know more about you.” He echoed behind me as I was already well on my way towards the door. Oh great, there was a tell-tale scuff mark on the flawless white-marble floor left from my boot after I fell. Was it slight enough that I could clean it?

“Well, I’m sure this wont be the last time we see one another~!” I stated calmly despite my heart throbbing like a bongo drum. There goes the second wind of that 5 Hour Energy.  
He’d followed me out the door after I’d decided that the janitor would have a simple enough time picking it off. I wanted to go home and take a nap.

I stood at the elevator, waiting for it to open up so I could be alone with my thoughts and soon reimmerse myself with the general public.

“Well, I hope you have everything you need.” He said, staring deeply into my eyes.

“You only answered four questions, so, kinda..?” I said, laughing nervously.

The elevator door rolled open and I quickly jumped in, hearing my ankle suddenly give underneath me. That was to be expected, my long legs not even having the balance of a giraffe in a windstorm. I caught myself moments before disaster (and the ultimate demise of the elevator compartment crashing down fifty floors), turning once more to face the famed Christian Grey.

“Anna.” He whispered, his lips barely moving as he continued to study me like a faded map.

“Mister Grey.” I replied calmly, not at all swooning over his sexy demeanor. I was more for the malnourished, pale guys, myself, so Christian’s aesthetic only slightly appealed to me. What girl doesn’t enjoy the occasional ripple of a firm bicep? Let me know when you find one.

The elevator began its pursuit back down to the lobby, and I couldn’t be more grateful. I needed to get out of that uniform and into a shower, wash the guck out of my hair, and later throw on a bra, sweatpants, and hoodie. I didn’t have classes on Mondays, so thankfully I could dedicate the rest of the day with my craft (And homework procrastination).

But as the elevator continued to make frequent stops between the top and bottom floors, all I could think about was Christian Grey, and what a fantastic reference he’d be for a figure portrait.


	4. When Being Stalked-- I Mean, Pursued, Always Shave Above The Knee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The store-scenes represented here are more often than not based off of real-life situations or scenarios.  
> Enjoy!

Unfortunately, as mentioned before, my life isn’t nearly as glamorous as had just unfolded in nearly no time. In all honesty, I was hoping that after having such a huge event occur in my life, it would be some form of ‘Rite-of-Passage’ or something. But nope. Still the same bitchy manager and whiny customers.

I worked at ‘Jillian’s Craft Store’, which basically was the bootleg version of any chain craft store. We sold everything from ratty, out-of-season pads of multi-colored paper, to fake flowers which smelled of dust and mold. Okay, fine, not all of the store was as decrepit as all that, but sometimes customers would be so rambunctious to the merchandise that it hardly even looked like the originally advertised item (We once found a dirty diaper rolled up in a pile of plain t-shirts).   

On any regular day, I typically was found at the front of the stores watching over the new trainees like a shepherd to a herd of caffeinated, sleep-deprived sheep. I was just finishing untangling the scanner from a new trainees counter before I was told to go onto the floor and begin reorganizing whatever it was that the customers had left behind in a state of disarray (Implying everything). By the Nine, if they needed me on the floor, it must’ve been bad. I was one of the last resorts because I could easily turn a twenty-minute clean-up into a two hour OCD polish, straightening and dusting. I was quite proud of my work, but I didn’t think anyone else really regarded the effort I would put into each and every aisle. Oh well, it was something I actually enjoyed and it made the time go by ridiculously fast.

I was well into the third hour of my seven-hour shift and eagerly looking forward to when my manager would give me the okay to go on a lunch-break. I had a massive baggie of Mike-n-Ikes seducing me since I bought them, and I was more than eager to delve into that multicolored, tastebud heaven. My hands feverishly stacked, ordered, and perfected the unpainted army of uniquely designed birdhouses and wood blocks, to the point of that particular aisle looking almost like a Photobucket Reference Image.

“Excuse me, miss.” A gruff but timid voice resonated from my peripheral hearing.

My retail smile emerged as if by clockwork, my cheeks aching mildly due to the strain. I tried not to look like I was cringing, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped.

“How can I help you, si--.”

It was Christian Grey. Wearing… cotton…

You gotta remember I’ve only ever seen him in a well-tailored suit and tie, so seeing him in something extremely casual, even lazy, was entirely mind-boggling. Was I staring? Fuck that fitted blue shirt of his. Fuck it straight to hell.

"Green hair?" He asked, which was when I instantly recalled our last encounter involving my electric locks being painted over with black. 

"Uh, yeah, I-I didn't wanna look like a clown in your fancy business so I went the more traditional route with a more natural shade." My voice was pitched and nervous. Internally I was cringing. 

"Personally I prefer the green. It's... unique." His eyes glimmered briefly with what could only be described as genuine intrigue. 

Whelp, that was that. I cleared my throat before lifting my gaze once more. “How can I help you today, sir?” I asked, grateful that today I’d actually gelled my hair that morning and it actually kinda looked nice (I didn’t love myself nearly enough to want to do that every day, but it’s still nice to shake it up every now and then).

"Just browsing..." He mused, eyeing the collection of wood-burning equipment which resided alongside the unsanded plaques. 

If the ice didn't break in a second I was going to combust.

“Thanks for… doing the interview… my roommate really appreciates you answering her questions.”

His deep ocean eyes traced against my alabaster features until I felt as if I was under a microscope. 

"Gladly." Was his delayed response, "It brings new light to the job whenever new situations present themselves." 

Christian smiled, but I felt obligated to continue, “I guess now she’s just having a hard-ass time finding an uncopyrighted picture of you on Google…”  

“‘Hard-ass’?” He mused with the shadows of a grin emerging on his thin lips and creasing the unkempt scruff of his cheeks.

“Um… Sorry, heh, I meant having a hard time--.”

My headset whirred to life, causing me to nearly jump as the pitched, whining voice of my manager came into existence in my left ear. The man standing before me gave me a puzzled glance as he studied the exceptionally organized row of small, medium, and large birdhouses.

“Anna, you can go on your break now.” My manager declared in my ear. I had to keep the headset at full blast due to a hearing impediment. Unfortunately, some people didn’t know how to use the headsets in a way that wouldn’t completely annihilate the eardrums of everyone on the same channel, one of the culprits being my manager. Honestly, if I worked with her for any longer, I’d need to start wearing a hearing aid. Jesus.

But back to the situation at hand, I was cleared to go on break, and my manager was insane about needing to be on break as soon as the MOD gave an employee the okay. Would it be rude just to skip him and run off? I felt the subconscious pull demanding my finest service for the casually adorned billionaire wandering amid the aisles which tended to be more regularly traveled by suburban mothers and senior citizens.

“I-- um… I…”

“Say no more…” He said with a devilish twitch of his lips before cramming a palm-sized piece of cardstock into my free hand before striding off without even a goodbye.

 _‘Jerk…’_ I thought sarcastically as I rose and proceeded to drag my boxes of overstock into the back-room before disappearing into the Employee’s Locker Room.  

That’s when I noticed in my peripheral vision, the contents of Christian Grey’s cart.

Rope, cable ties, and tape were the gist of what I could see, but I knew there was a lot, even for a wealthy guy to purchase without some form of discount or coupon. Geez, all the wealthy weirdo needed was some chloroform and a pistol to confirm for me the suspicions of him being a murderer. Good thing we didn’t carry any at this particular chain.

At the same time, I began wondering just why a millionaire would want to shop at such a ghetto Craft Store in the first place? Didn’t the wealthy have their own overpriced versions of stores up at wherever they shopped? Personally, I would never be caught dead on the richer side of town, but I knew there had to be some kind of Walmart-On-Steroids over there.

Of course, I wasn’t even fantasizing the idea of ever immersing myself among the richer snobs of the world. In my opinion, they were all the same. People like me were mere dust particles on their college tuition-priced clothes and jewelry made in foreign lands and probably woven by the gods at some point. I had no business being there, and they had no business being in my ratchet Craft Store.

As I basically deepthroated a dozen or so of the chewy multi-colored candies (which caused two of my fellow employees to look on with horror), I began to mold an idea for a new drawing I would possibly wanna start when I got home.

No, let me stop you there, it wouldn’t involve the world famous Christian Grey.

Wait till Kate got a load o’ this shit.

 


	5. To Be, Or Not To Be, In The Spotlight-- Nah, Lets Be in The Spotlight

Kate reacted about as well as one might expect when a celebrity makes an impromptu visit into your place of work and agrees to a photo shoot later on.

Now, for me, even though I do enjoy the arts, photography just wasn’t my thing ever. So while Kate had her little self-proclaimed professional photographers (the only professional photo-taking they’ve ever done was for Instagram, and even that was a disappointment.), I hung back with a sketchpad and a new mechanical pencil, blending stump, and eraser. I was set for the next few hours. Every now and again I’d look up to see the rabble of wannabes attempting to get the perfect shot of Christian Grey while they almost had to stand on stilts to look him in the eye. Out of all of them, Jose, a rugged Puerto Rican lad with curly dark hair and deep brown eyes, was the only one who actually might one day stand a chance in the photography industry. The kid studied cameras, and models almost as much as I studied the anatomy of a model's butt. To be honest, it was rather amusing if it wasn’t so embarrassing. I loved Kate, but honestly, her friends were idiots and compared to all the other things I thought about them, that was the kindest in my regime.

I was in the middle of drawing a basic illustration of a book I’d been reading for the past few days when Kate suddenly emerged in the corner of my vision. I looked up and gave a slight laugh.

“You guys having fun playing photographer?” I asked incredulously.

“He’s been staring at you since he showed up… What did you do?”

I gave a vacant shrug, feeling more uncomfortable at that particular tidbit of knowledge than anything else.

“Maybe it’s just my adorably awkward personality?” I guessed rhetorically, to which she scoffed. Typical of her to be jealous over absolutely nothing. God fucking dammit, woman, keep it in your pants.

“Well I’ve done my best to put my best foot forward since his arrival, and I’m being upstaged by someone who isn’t even trying, forgive me if I feel a slight bit frustrated.”

“Dude, I have not even the slightest idea of what you’re talking about. Do you think Christian Grey and I have a _thing_? Because you’re sorely mistaken. I’m not after the Big Wigs who have had everything handed to them on a silver platter. Hell no, that’s just asking for a lifetime babysitting job.”

Kate shrugged. “Fine, fine… I know how you are about those types of guys... Sorry I got all ‘Crazy-Psycho-Bitch’.”

“Kate, darling, if you apologized every time you were a ‘Crazy-Psycho-Bitch’,” I made air quotations, “You’d spend the rest of your life begging for forgiveness,” I added with a laugh.

“Oh, Har-har-har…” Kate sighed before spinning on the toes of her flats and returning to the fiasco unfolding. I waited a couple minutes and finally did chance a glance up at the dashing Mr. Grey.

Sure enough, as Kate had stated, there he was, staring right back at me. It was as if a wire held our gazes rigid before I shifted in order to rid myself of the discomfort roiling inside. I could still feel his burning gaze against the top of my head, and I finally decided I’d had enough and proceeded to gather my things and camp out in the girl’s bathroom for a short while.

This was some ‘Twilight’ shit, I thought with a shiver.

 

When I did finally gather up enough courage to leave my refuge, there he was, sitting exactly where I’d been less than fifteen minutes ago. He seemed surprised when he saw me, and I tried to faux a look of surprise on my own alabaster features. Knowing my skills as an actress, I probably just looked constipated.

“Oh, hey!” He exclaimed as he got up as if having expected me to demand my seat back. Oh god he sounded flustered, and that made me feel instantly shy; A feeling I did not get often.    

“Hey!” I replied, running my fingers feverishly through my green locks.

“You look nice today.” He said as he suddenly regained the demeanor of someone who’d never felt awkward about anything in his life.

“I’d be lying if I said you didn’t,” I replied as I clutched my sketchpad like a shield. I still felt vulnerable, and that was a feeling I despised above all.

That’s when he said what I’d been anticipating somehow. “Wanna go out for coffee sometime?”

Pfft, as if I wasn’t a lowly commoner.

But then again, I was never one to turn down someone at first glance. Maybe he wouldn’t act as I expected? Maybe he was a classy traditional man?--

Wait, in this day and age? Haha, I was fantasizing.

“Sure! That’d be great. But I’ll buy my own drink if it’s all the same for you, thanks.” I had to hold some semblance of pride, or I would be dragged down with the idea of becoming dependent on someone else.

“Only if you insist.”   
I smirked, “I do.”

Kate was watching me like a spider to a fly. She had been catering to his every whim in hopes of him noticing her, even getting up two hours earlier to shower and apply makeup. I had barely rolled out of bed and found week-old jeans and a tee. Compared to her, I looked like a meth-addict.

“Just so we’re clear, you are single, right?” He asked softly as if realizing he’d screwed up his line in a play during the opening night.

“Yep. I scare guys away who don’t have the balls to have a real girl with real thoughts.”

He wrinkled his nose at my slang but said nothing.

“Good.” He said with a nervous chuckle. “I’m just gonna forewarn you though… I’m not a romantic.” His expression became stern again. I speculated that BPD might've been involved. His mood changed more than I changed my panties in a week. 

“The Hell is that supposed to mean--?”

“Anna! Be nice to Mr. Grey! Come on!” Kate squealed like an overprotective mother as she pulled me aside by my arm.

“Mr. Grey, it’s been an absolute pleasure.” She extended her hand which he took.

“The pleasure was all mine, Miss Katherine.” He replied without kissing her knuckle as she’d probably hoped he would. His eyes lingered on mine, and I couldn’t help but revel in the idea of him choosing to focus more on me than anyone else. In all honesty, I wasn’t usually the type to yearn for a chance in the spotlight for any reason. I pictured myself as more of a stage-hand, never able to earn attention for anything I did or made. This was a nice change… a very nice change.

With that, Christian left, leaving Kate a blushing-raging mess. She was blinking frantically, which meant she’d decided to wear the mascara she was allergic to because it was what made her eyes look the brightest. I knew she wasn’t the crying type, especially in public.

“Come on guys, we’ve done enough damage here.”

“Finally! Can I get ice-cream now? You promised.” I stated, mimicking the tone of a spoiled child. Kate was used to my antics and shook her head with a laugh.

“Let’s put a Rain Check on that, babe. I’m really tired.”

“You know I’m only kidding. I’ll just bring it up at any chance I get when you’re anywhere within a quarter-mile-radius of an ice cream shop.”

She didn’t answer that, obviously still mulling over the fact that The Mr. Grey had preferred my attentions over hers.

Ah, yes, it did feel good in the spotlight.


	6. Coffee Dates and Drunken Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for having been absent these past few weeks. I have been working on my own projects, and I honestly just haven't had much inspiration to continue some fanfictions because they're not getting as much revenue. Hoepfully a long chapter for this will clear that up at least a little bit.  
> Enjoy!

Well, this day was just getting more and more stupid. 

Not only did I wake up too late to take the train and go to work after my last final, I had to waste a pretty penny on a city taxi because Uber’s site was under maintenance. Oh, the struggles of being middle-class. 

Now finally I had just gotten off work, having barely put my vest into my personal locker when my phone rang the ringtone from ‘One Missed Call’. 

It’d been my mother who was basically trying to avoid the airfare that surely would be exceptionally high due to her and my step-father having to transfer from Massachusetts to Seattle in order to make it to my graduation in another week or so. I’m bad with dates. 

For starters, my mother is a horrible liar, and she knows that I know that. So why in her dizziest daydreams did she think that ‘Your father broke his ankle playing golf’, would convince me that they were too encumbered to come to my own goddamn college graduation? My dad doesn’t even play golf; that’s how ridiculous her claims were! Oh well, it was only college, maybe they’ll come when I go to Graduate College, I thought with a disgruntled sniff. 

As soon as I hung up the phone, after a half-assed ‘sorry’, from my mother’s end after I’d desperately pleaded with her to abandon my father and come see me; I missed them both so, but I would rather one parent if I couldn’t have both. Was that spoiled of me? I just didn’t wanna seem like the awkward nobody who doesn’t have parents to receive an overwhelmingly happy cluster of embraces after the ceremony. Ah well, yet another opportunity to stand out like a sore thumb, I guess.  

“-- Or not show up at all...” I said aloud, gritting my teeth as I tried to keep my demeanor calm as I passed by customers and employees alike. Each one I passed gave me a small smile of recognition, to which I would reciprocate. 

“See ya later!” I said in a high-pitched sing-song. Anything to hide the burning in my soul. 

I’ll cry when I get home,

I’ll cry when I get home,

I’ll cry when I get home… 

My eyes were watering; Abort, abort, abort! 

I feverishly plugged my entangled earbuds into my phone and ran my music playlist at full blast. Nothing like the sweet relief that music will bring. It was like a drug; An illegally-downloaded, heavily autotuned drug. 

I pulled the cardstock out of my pant pocket and finally examined it. Despite the fifteen minute break I’d had earlier, I was more focused on scrolling through funny pictures on my phone rather than reading the swirly, scripted business card of one of the wealthier Bigwigs in town. Heck, if I actually thought about it, he probably helped fund a portion of my biweekly paycheck. Every company in Seattle seemed to be tied in with another, all of the ties eventually creating a massive intertwining spider web of blackmail and  paystubs. That was how a lot of industries worked, I realized with a satisfied smirk.

“Hey!” A voice rang out from a dozen yards away. I looked up and my stomach churned uncomfortably. I wished I’d just kept my head down, mom always said not to talk to strangers.  

It was him. It was Christian, fuck-face, Grey. Was he stalking me? Was this what it felt like to be stalked? 

“Oh, hey,” I replied numbly, trying to shove my nerves deep into the inner corners of my soul (Coincidentally where I also store my darkest memories and repressed traumas. Cozy place.). 

“Just clock out?” 

“I saw you a few hours ago…” I commented, pulling the other earbud out of its place.  Was this guy for real? 

“Is there anything I can do for you Mister Grey that your big-breasted secretary can’t?” 

I snapped, feeling decaffeinated and uncomfortable. 

Christian Grey only laughed, which was surprising since I’d basically just burned him with, what I was proud to say, a very clever whiplash.

“Let’s get some coffee, you look tired and it’s still midday.” He said in a deep, sexy voice. 

Well, I may not dive into his arms at the first chance I get, but I do like free food and drinks, so I agreed to join him. There was a coffee shop a few stores down from where I worked, which thankfully was fairly cheap. I didn’t want Christian Grey buying me a goddamn $15 drink at Starbucks. I’m no sugar baby. 

 

Well, that Coffee date went… well? 

He paid for my drink, which was chivalrous of him, but I had a huge issue with my own pride and felt like I would owe him something if I didn’t pay him back. So, against his knowledge, after I’d gotten nowhere with trying to convince him that I had money and could pay him back, I snuck $10 into his coat-pocket and said nothing about it. Hopefully, that’d be a nice surprise for him later (Or he could praise me for my reverse-pickpocketing skills.). 

After that, he simply asked about my family, my background, ya know, date-y stuff. I answered quickly, clearly, and I basically did anything I could to give off the signs that I wasn't gonna toss my panties at him anytime soon. I would have to be coerced. After all, I rather enjoyed the game of pursuer versus pursuit, and I hoped that in the future he would become more personal. I wasn't about to be in another one-sided relationship, so if that was Mr. Grey's intention, then he was sorely mistaken. I wasn't gonna go down without a fight. 

It was towards the end of the date that he said something… Remarkably odd. Even for him.  

I’d been fidgeting and was somewhat frustrated at knowing that he wasn’t getting the hints I’d been throwing. He noticed. 

“You seem nervous.” He said in that deep voice, again. 

“I… find you…” What’s the word I was looking for? Fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck, “Intimidating.” 

He smirked devilishly, to which I felt a tremor go down my spine. I didn’t think he was a predator due to his reputation, but maybe there was a reason he’d never been seen with a girl on his arm. Maybe the girls all avoided him because of something he was hiding. 

“You should.” He replied. Okay, there was another red flag. 

“And high-handed,” I added, haughtily, trying to force myself to calm down despite my roaring heart and lady-bits. 

“I’m used to getting my own way.” 

I wanted to say, ‘in that case, you’re just a brat in a fancy suit, I see’, but since he’d bought my drink, I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. 

“That sounds… honestly, boring.’ I stated. If I could fidget anymore then my toes would fall off and go find someone else who was less socially awkward. 

Thankfully, for once, he seemed to read the signs that I was flustered and uncomfortable, and he quickly changed the subject to my background. 

Eventually, after a few more mildly strained conversations, I got a text message. 

Girl, if I could I’d worship you for saving my ass. 

I excused myself for the day, thanking Christian for the drink, before looking over my shoulder once again, in an oh-so-sassy way “Check your pocket.” 

I didn’t check over my shoulder to see if he actually started looking for what I was implying. Maybe the thought I’d given him my personal phone number. HA! 

After ordering the Uber on my tablet, I opened the text and saw it was from Kate. 

**Kate** <SMS Text Message>: 16:32 5/2/15 ‘ **Hey guuuuur place is gettin LiT** !  **LOL Jk, but were at ‘The Hoe’s Hole’ if ya wanna stop by in celebration of Finals bein OVAH!** ” 

I smirked at Kate’s attempt at sounding cool. ‘The Hoes’ Hole’, was Kate’s terminology for the bar just down our street. The name so fit after we saw a drunken stripper do the splits in the front of the parking lot and had gone entirely commando aside from the torn fishnets loose enough to drag behind her at the ankles. Needless to say, it’s been years and that image is still seared into my brain, so one might say it left an impact. 

**You** <SMS Text Message>: 16:34 5/2/15 ‘ **Sure, that’d be cool. ETA 20-30 minutes, I just got out of work.** ’ 

The reply was almost instantaneous. 

**Kate** <SMS Text Message>: 16:34 5/2/15 ‘ **YaYYY! Jose will be with us, just FYI ;););) He was the guy who helped with the pictures of Christine Grey** ’ 

_ \--Vvvvvvvvvvvvvvv _ \--

**Kate** <SMS Text Message>: 16:35 5/2/15 ‘ ***Christien, LOL** ’ 

\-- _ Vvvvvvvvvvvvvv _ \--

**Kate** <SMS Text Message>: 16:35 5/2/15 ‘ ****Cristian? Christeen? Crustacean? FUCK IT, I GIVE UP!!! This is why I’ll never be an English Teacher. Take notes. A kid would ask how to spell something and my reply would be “Your guess is as good as mine, twerp”. lol** ‘ 

I climbed into the Uber as it pulled in and sped off as soon as I’d shut the door. Brief greetings followed by a thank-you from my end was all the conversation I needed. I skimmed through Kate’s poor struggle through spelling Christian’s name. I would’ve pitied her, but I was too busy trying to think of a genderswapped version of Christian Grey in Christine Grey. 

**You** <SMS Text Message>: 16:37 5/2/15 ‘ ***Christian..? Lol** ’

The Uber driver gave my aged flip-phone a bemused glance before making an obvious show of setting up the GPS to take me back to the apartment.

What’s the matter? Ain’t never seen a Flip-phone before? Well lemme tell you, it sucks. It sucks dirty, STD-infested balls. I would have one of those fancy-schmancy Apple phones, but I, unlike you, don’t wanna buy it and then let my clumsy, stumbling, wreck-of-a-human-being have a go at it. 

‘Besides’, I concluded the imaginary argument with an equally haughty and imaginary sniff, ‘I happen to like flipping the phone’s screen down when I’m pissed off at someone on the other end. Oh, can your phone not do that? I’m sure it can, let me try.’ 

I contemplated how difficult it would be to crack an apple product in half, and then finally decided it wouldn’t take much effort at all since it was, in fact, an Apple Product, and Apple wasn’t exactly renowned for their durability.   

**Kate** <SMS Text Message>: ‘ **THANK YOU <3333333 C u soon bby!** ’ 

The bar...  that was a twenty minute walk at the very most from the apartment,. Eh, it’s not like what I was wearing wasn’t proper for a bar; the place was so seedy I was almost guaranteed to walk out of the darkened Bar and Club with three layers of suspicious liquid caked down my skinny jeans. 

That’s okay, I never expected to have nice things for very long anyway. 

 

Not even two hours later, the three person party was already having a blast amidst the strobe-lights and roaring music. Jose and Kate were dancing, and then suddenly I was dancing, and then Kate and I were dancing (Will not confirm or deny if there were kisses involved).  

After the third drink I was already feeling a bit sluggish (What? They were huge glasses, and I don’t drink on the norm!). Things seemed to fizzle from then on, and I wondered briefly if I’d been drugged, only for a massive wave of euphoria to banish all the inhibitions I might’ve had. 

Jose touched my ass, grinding against me substantially until I could barely stand upright. I think it was safe to say that I wasn’t at all comfortable with everything going on, but so much was, in fact, going on, that I could scarcely tell what  was happening. 

“Jose…” I grunted, trying to pry his wiry frame off of me. Either he didn’t hear me, or I wasn’t making my demands clear.

I whipped around and stood at eye-level with him, my lips pursed with utter disgust. 

He seemed surprised and ready for me to yell at him; perfect. 

“I need to pee.” I stated without holding back. 

Without gauging his probably perplexed reaction I stormed off, tripping over my own two feet as I clambered over to the back of the line of the lady’s room. I wasn’t lying, I  _ did  _ need to pee. And pee I would if this line wasn’t fast enough for my bladder’s standards. 

“By the way!” Kate cackled, hefting a massive beverage in one hand, and a beefy beefcake in the other arm who was positively drooling over Kate’s shoulder. I saw a wedding band but made no comment. 

“Whatchya want, bish?” I roared over the music. 

“You had a package at home, I left it… the livin’rum for ya~!” She giggled before positively devouring the her date’s neck. If anything, the steadily building nausea at the back of my throat was only intensified at the sound of her fervent lips smacking against his leathery hide. Yes, I just compared his skin to a leather sofa, deal with it. 

Well, with Kate obviously detained, and my inebriated brain suddenly giving me the sensation of loneliness (Was I aroused? Or had I peed myself?). Pulling out my phone, I slowly scrolled to a random phone number. 

I had intended it to be one of the girls from my English Class, but I guess either my hazy vision distorted at the last minute, or I misread the contact name. Either way, after having the receiver on my face for less than a moment, a male voice crackled into existence. I could hardly hear it over the music, but it’d do.   

It was Christian. Great. Now he’d never get off my back. 

I slurred something incoherent (to me, at least), and probably called him Mr. Fancypants and that he was bossy. It was all a blur. 

He asked me where I was, and I laughed hysterically, a trickle of urine creeping down my leg. “The Hoes Hole~!” I sang, to which the girls in line began laughing at the term before repeating it over and over. 

Christian seemed to roar something in the phone before I told him I had to go and hung up before he could reply. 

Kate pulled me out of the line (By now I had peed down my leg and no longer needed the Ladies Room. Frankly, I didn’t care. If anything, it felt kinda nice, in a gross kind of way.). 

 

“I need some air.” I groaned after feeling a wave of nausea roll through me. 

“Lemme help you.” Jose crowed before grabbing my elbows and guiding me outside. 

“N-No…” My voice was barely above a whisper. Or was it that my hearing had been entirely depleted due to the heavy bass roaring for so long? Either way, I could hardly tell where I was until a rush of a cool summer breeze washed over  my heated skin. It felt like satin, and I couldn’t help but lie back, the queasiness feeling disappearing from my primary thoughts. 

“Thanks, Jose, you can let me go now…” 

Jose said something incoherent and I felt my head loll. 

“I want to kiss you, please, just one…” Jose suddenly was in my line of vision, his lips and breath brushing against mine. I was so weak I could barely hold my head up as I attempted to bat his advances away. We were well hidden from view, he could do anything to me and I wouldn’t be able to stop him. 

“She said no!” A muffled voice roared into existence. It was as though I was swimming underwater, hearing an argument above me. 

“Oh, h-hey, Ch-Christian… I--” 

My sour stomach suddenly came back before it all became too much and I doubled over, vomiting all over my shoes. 

The blood rose to my cheeks as I realized exactly what’d happened, and that I’d also most likely gotten some puke on Christian’s shoes. Goddamnit, why this? Why now? 

A piece of cloth was pressed over my mouth to wipe away any of the excess of my recent purge. 

“Thank… you.” I burped. “Kate’s here… I gotta get her…” 

“No, it’s alright, my brother’s in there with her.” 

I felt my mouth curl into a groggy smile, or a grimace, whichever went first, before everything abruptly went black, a comical bang sealing me away into the darkness.


	7. A Hangover at Hotel Hell Part 1

When I awoke, my eyes were itchy and sealed together with dried tears, as if I’d been sick the night before. At first, I had to feel around the room, attempting to find some familiar element of the bed I was in. I knew it wasn’t mine from the moment my senses returned somewhat as it was way too pristinely tucked and ironed.  Meanwhile, my bed at home was lucky to get a new set of sheets for every season, and I honestly wish I was joking.

I finally pried my eyes open with my thumb and index finger, groaning lethargically as the blindingly-white sunlight streamed in through the windows. 

To say I regretted the night’s festivities was a bit of an understatement at this point as my head ached with each slight movement of my eyes as they surveyed the alabaster room.

As far as everything looked, it was a hotel room; an expensive hotel room. Perhaps even the penthouse.  How had I gotten here? And would I be expected to pay for the room regardless of my inebriated state the night before?  How in the hell was I let past the front desk? 

I felt a knot grow in the pit of my stomach at the thought; knowing fully that I didn’t even make enough money to pay for a goddamn Super 8, never mind the level of vanity in which I found myself. 

Groggily, I rolled over, wincing as my overworked limbs throbbed to the point that I could hardly feel the delicately pressed sheets against my bare feet. That's when I realized that the pajamas I was presently adorned with weren’t my own, and I instantly felt mortified that anyone had seen me naked, regardless of their seemingly good intentions.  I didn't _feel_ like I'd been drugged, and nor did I sense that I'd been violated the night before. But then again, I'd never experienced either of those events, so what would I know about the leftover bodily traumas that were associated with such complicated and unfortunate situations? 

That’s when I noticed a small pair of mandarin ovals on the side table and a cup of water. It was aspirin; I recognized the brand almost instantly. 

Through the fog of my headache, I reached for the tiny capsules, downing the water like a shot after tossing the aspirin to the back of my throat.

“Good morning,” A familiar tone intercepted my hearing and I frantically dug through the night’s events for where I might’ve heard it before. 

'Goddamnit, it was the big-wig-supermodel again,' I thought with a disgruntled huff. 

Now, it wasn't that I had a hatred for him as a person, or even for his company. But as far as I'd seen, wealthy folk didn't exactly have the greatest track-record with the lowlier classes of society (I'm referencing the billions of us who don't make six figures a year), often discriminating the normal people who're just trying to make a living; who hadn't been blessed with the opportunities that our wealthy comrades had been.   

I forced that image to possess my entire disposition, trying desperately to ignore the way Christian's muscles rippled as he approached the king-sized bed I occupied. I imagined how amazing it'd feel to have his heated, hard flesh pressed against me as he left a daisy-chain of hickeys around my exposed throat--...  

GODDAMNIT, WOMAN, PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER!  

I hadn't been dicked down in months, so with that being said, the ramifications of my unexpected, long-term abstinence had started to take its toll on my subconscious. Needless to say, my vibrator was starting to lose its luster when the demands of my womanhood required my attention.   

“How are you feeling?” 

I forced a small smile to emerge on my lips, though my head was still reeling with the tsunami of an oncoming migraine was starting to set in. 

“Fan-fucking-tastic.” I moaned, though I quickly changed my tone. “I’m fine; I’d be in a worse situation if you hadn’t come to ‘save the day’, as it were. So, thanks.” 

A wry smirk creased his shaven features at the tone of my apathetic apology before his expression abruptly soured, a disapproving glare now suddenly masking the once seemingly chipper composure he'd greeted me with. l felt momentarily vulnerable, and that was a feeling I despised above all else. 

“Where’d the clothes come from? Did we… did you…?” my fingers pointed rapidly between us in order to further convey what I was implying. 

“No. Necrophilia isn’t my thing.” 

I gave a puzzled glance in his direction. “But I’m not dead?” 

“With how you slept, it was hard to tell a difference,” Christian stated calmly. I assumed his reply was his best attempts at responding in a satirical manner. “I had Taylor pick you up some new clothes.” He finally answered.

“Is Taylor your secretary, or something?” 

“My driver.” 

“Ah,” I had a driver too, it’s called Uber. 

“You were covered in vomit, and I don’t think all of it was yours,” He stated calmly before slowly wandering towards the edge of the bed. “You shouldn’t have drunk as much as you did. I’m all for testing the limits, but you put yourself at risk last night.”

“Yep. Sure did.” I snapped back. I didn’t need a lecture from someone I barely knew; I had enough resources from my parents to write a cringe-y, three-part book series, and certainly didn’t need another intervention.  I knew I was self-destructive, why bother lying? 

That, apparently, wasn’t the correct response, as Christian’s eyes widened slightly at my once more idle and uncompliant demeanor.

“If you were mine, you wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week.” He murmured as he slid lithely onto the bed towards me, for what purpose, I couldn't be sure.  Perhaps it was a wealthy person's attempt to seem strong and imposing.  I was so absorbed with his overly vain body-language that I barely picked up the sexual undertones of his words. 

'If you were mine', that statement sent shivers down my spine, but I couldn't tell if it was due to arousal or fear.  

My gaze snapped up at his, the fog of confusion lacing my still mildly throbbing head as arousal and anxiety crept into mind. But rather than mold a response, which had the possibility causing him to rebuke me again (I might be a masochist, but only when I see fit. I’m still human, and there’s a distinctive difference between roleplaying and verbal abuse), I instead flopped back down against the bed, the pads of my feet preventing him from crawling any closer to me.  I began to absently sing a few lines from the signature song by Lesley Gore, feeling pride when Christian sneered briefly at me. 

“... You don’t own me, I’m not just one of your many toys…~” After all, I didn’t just deal with the weird, intrusive comments of others, rather, I simply disregarded them like I did a majority of unnecessary statements, and sometimes offered a smug response as a reply.

I didn’t think of myself as above anyone else, as I accepted constructive criticism and used it always to better myself as a person. However, if you’re gonna insult my way of coping with things without even knowing me for a full month, then by god, you have no right to degrade my lifestyle choices. After all, it’s not like he asked why I drink, or why I so openly degrade myself without a second thought, he was only concerned that I had gotten drunk. In my mind it’d be like confronting an anorexic person for not eating regular meals; like, duh, that’s an obvious understatement. But if you don’t dig around and find the root of the issue, the problem isn’t going to go away simply for the fact that their lifestyle choices are not something you agree with. 

Alright, lecture over. 

Christian had said something about ‘not being able to leave me alone’, to which I gave a bored ‘mhm’, to ensure that I was  _ totally  _ listening. 

When Christian finally stopped talking, after seemingly hours of blathering on about proper self-care mannerisms, and that I completely threw all that shit down the drain, he finally rose from the bed and glowered down at me, shirtless and quietly flexing as if attempting to impress me. 

“I’m gonna go shower.” He said calmly.

And that, as they say, was the end of that. 

 

When Christian left the shower after what only felt like a chaste 10 minutes, I was permitted to go in and shower at my leisure. I did so without question, wanting nothing more than to be away from the handsome, yet ominous, representation of the human male anatomy of which I’d never experienced in my lifetime. 

The hot water in the shower was absolutely divine against my clammy skin, causing me to let out a long, pent-up sigh. Usually, hotel showers left you feeling like either someone had gently crying on you for the allotted time you were washing, or that bullets were being fired at your vulnerable, naked flesh. But this shower was nicer than the one at my own house. I deliberated the amusing mentality of stealing the shower-head to further irk Christian, but of course, made no efforts to do so.  

As I left the solitude of the shower curtain, I came face to face with a dress apparently also having probably been purchased by the chap known only as ‘Taylor the driver’. 

For starters, it was about as vain as a peacock’s fan and so obnoxiously feminine that I could feel my tomboy mindset shudder and gag at the mere sight of the designer fabric on my body. 

Unfortunately, I had no idea where my clothes were, or whether Christian had had them exorcised, so I had to either leave this Hotel room in naught but a towel, or simply grin and bear it at least until I got back to Kate’s and my apartment. 

I shrugged the dress over my knobby shoulders and zipped it up in the back. It was tight enough to not require a bra, but the fabric pushed up on my curves a little too viciously for my tastes. I’m all for showing a little boob, every now and again, but not after I’d just spent the night drinking and staying at some random, upper-class hotel. Why did this sound like the prompt to almost every rom-com TV show in existence? My only regret is that the Hotel wasn’t  some seedy no-tell Motel out in the ghetto, paid for by someone without a future. 

But instead, I got the princess treatment from someone I’d only read briefly about on Wikipedia. Am I wrong to think that this isn’t at least a little bit odd? Or am I just being selfish and I need to let loose and have fun? Every other girl in the world would kill to be in my situation right now, why not enjoy it? 

Yet there was something off about the famed Christian Grey; something he kept well concealed behind the fitted cashmere tux and the supposedly suave, carefree personality. 

I had no choice but to brush off the inhibition I was feeling and forced myself to finally scrutinize my appearance in the full-length mirror.   

Desperately I tugged at the well-sewn fabric for what felt like hours after that first glance, my fear and low self-esteem spiraling downward with each moment passing.  Finally, with a loud, frustrated huff, I accepted the fact that I would have to emerge from the bathroom dressed like one of Beyonce’s background singers. 

I gave an inward groan of despair before shoving the door open. 

Without a moment to spare, Christian was on his feet at my approach, having obviously been sitting at the foot of the bed the entire duration of my time in the bathroom. 

“You look beautiful.” 

I didn’t wanna sound ungrateful, so I didn’t say what I was thinking, which was to inquire as to what band I’d be opening for as a background dancer whilst I was in that flashy dress. 

So instead, I smiled and thanked him carefully. He seemed pleased at my polite response which contrasted completely from my regular dosage of sass.  His satisfactory smile having lingered on his face as he eyed my figure caused a wave of inhibition to wash over me. Without thinking, I began chewing on my already crimson, swollen lips, which caused a smile to snake across his mouth; a hungry smile. 

"I'd like to bite those lips." 

I felt even more heat continue to pool between my legs as I dug my teeth further into the pink of my lips to avoid my lips wantonly pressing against his own. He hadn't given his consent, and I would've preferred that he also get my consent before I did anything behind closed doors.  This was a dream.  


	8. A Hangover At Hotel Hell Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaaahhhhh, my inspiration has been shit. I both love and hate that this is my most popular fanfiction, despite how unoriginal I think it is. That's what you call irony... haha

The Dress continued to rustle against my skin in a way that inescapably triggered my sensory disorder. It wasn’t long before I was ready to claw out of my own skin, but I couldn’t, since I was still in public-- well, in the eye of the illustrious, the overly-controlling, Christian Grey--; and god forbid that I ever dare seem ungrateful for the numerous collection of gifts he’d given me (which apparently included a hardcover edition of a biography of all the major Serial Killers of the world waiting for me at home-- somebody pinch me~!). 

“I don’t know how I can pay you back…” I muttered, looking down at myself as I mentally calculated the potential cash-total of resources he’d purchased for me.  I was slipping into old habits again; Kate would be thrilled. 

“Don’t. It’s okay, they’re gifts.” 

“But the book… the-the dress…” 

“Are an apology,” He reaffirmed. For what, buddy?  I’m all ears.  

“Why are you apologizing?” 

“I’ve been overly abrasive and controlling behavior… You’re not mine and I need to accept that.” He murmured, his eyes downcast as he appeared to show signs of shame, though I couldn’t tell. “I won’t touch you again… not until I have your written consent.” 

Whoa. Hold up.

“‘Yours’?” I reiterated, trying to hide the alarm in my tone. “Sir, slavery has been illegal for the past couple centuries; sorry to disappoint you.” 

Like Bruce Banner briefly showing signs of turning green, something seemed to change behind the taller man’s eyes, though I couldn’t tell specifically what it was.  At best I could describe it as… the look I get when food is arriving in my direction while I’m at a restaurant.  It was hunger, but also something more deeply-rooted than that.  Whatever it was, it caused my curiosity to pique in a way that only happened when I was watching Richard Ramirez’s interview and gauging his responses. 

“I’ll explain later.  Come on, I’ll get you home…” He murmured before brusquely turning on a heel and carefully handing me a cloth bag which reeked of urine and vomit; my clothes from the night before. Oh god. 

Well, I guess that was the wealthy man’s way of ending the conversation.  I followed behind contentedly, trying to keep my legs close together while I walked to prevent the aggravating rustle of the cloth against my skin.  We left the Hotel room and made our way to the elevator while I simultaneously raked my fingers through my hair in a desperate attempt to look less frazzled than I felt. 

Yep, we’d definitely been in the penthouse.  The number of floors listed on the roomy elevator causing me to gape in awe, though I desperately tried to suppress it by pursing my lips together and averting my gaze from the imposing figure in the well-tailored suit. 

The tension in the tiny room was so evident it could’ve been cut with a knife as I desperately searched for a set of pockets amidst the dainty skirts, but found none.  Fidgeting eventually overtook me, and we’d only gone down one-fifth of the floors. Fuck, fuckity, fuck fuck, why couldn’t this elevator just plummet to the basement and kill me?! 

That’s when things abruptly took a turn, a dozen events unfolding within the time-expanse of a blink. 

I heard Christian mumble something about ‘fucking the paperwork’ and wondered briefly if paperwork all that businessmen worried about, even in bed. 

Not even getting a moment to evaluate the prospective thought, I felt Christian’s lips crashing against mine, his hands roaming over every inch of exposed flesh that the dress provided, but not where I needed it most. To say that I was sexually frustrated was a bit of an understatement.

That’s when I went from begging for the elevator’s cables to drop and kill us instantly, to wanting nothing more than the sluggish descent to stop completely and allow us more time together.  

All that came to a crashing halt when the elevator stopped and the doors parted, allowing for an elderly couple with a dainty, wide-eyed girl to join us on our voyage down to the lobby. 

I was forced into a corner while Christian was made to stand adjacent to me, his hands pressed against the evidently prominent bulge having formed in his trousers. I suppressed a giggle as I eyed the distress in his features.  Oh how quickly the tables had turned. 

To say that I hated his efforts at seducing me would’ve been a blatant lie, as I quite frankly enjoyed it. However, I would’ve preferred that he give a bit more of a warning so I wasn’t so caught off guard. God forbid that I screamed and security had to break in under the impression that I was being molested.  That would’ve been awkward. 

The bumbling couple left with a polite nod of their balding, wrinkled heads and stepped out from the now fully-opened sliding doors. That’s when I realized we were already on the ground floor and the elevator was patiently awaiting our departure. 

Well, I’d asked for the time to go by faster, and it had. I couldn’t blame anyone but myself for wishing towards such a goal.  

I’d hoped that Christian would take me into his car and we’d resume what was so abruptly halted within the elevator, but that wasn’t at all the case. In fact, to my great annoyance, he acted as though there hadn’t been a single second of intimacy between us, which then caused me to start overanalyzing my response.  I didn’t want to hint at the possibility of messing around, as that would imply that I was thirsty, which was highly inappropriate for someone of my social standard to hint towards. 

He dropped me off at my dorm with a brief farewell, his eyes averted from mine as I thanked him repeatedly for having driven me home, and for everything else (Though I didn’t allude to what those other things might’ve been. For all he knew, I could’ve been thanking him for not murdering me and stuffing my body in a freezer.).  

Christian insisted that he follow me in to supposedly ‘ensure’ that I would be safe while I suffered the last few hours of the significantly dwindled hangover my brain was clinging to. 

Upon walking into the seemingly tranquil apartment, I almost believed that Kate was already gone to work and I’d have the apartment for myself. That was until I saw the briefest curvature of a bare ass, followed by the rustling of cloth as the stranger yanked his jeans back into place.

There Kate sat, in all her vulgar, sexed-up radiance; her hair a disheveled mop of tangles while she attempted to wordlessly scorn me for intervening on her dick-appointment.  My only response was to mouth ‘ _ Good one _ ’ while my face stretched into an over-dramatic, congratulatory grin.  She rolled her eyes while also trying to inconspicuously tuck herself back into her panties while Elliot, Christian’s self-proclaimed brother, insisted that I shake his hand. It felt as though it’d been painted in generous layers of baby-oil.  Did that make me and Kate lesbians now?   

With an obviously loopy demeanor, the Grey-brother quickly replaced what clothes still piled the wooden floor onto his scrawny frame before bestowing a magnificently smutty kiss over Kate’s lips. I’d be surprised if she still had a tongue after that… Jesus.  Kate giggled as a response, obviously smitten for the young rogue having dutifully served her for the past twelve hours.   

After bidding us an overly casual farewell, which didn’t even remotely match with the upper-class standards by which they obviously lived by, Kate’s ‘recently-dicked-down’ bubbly persona abruptly changed.

“Did I actually hear him saying he’s gonna meet with you tonight?” 

“Mmmhhhmm~!” I sang in a deep, jazzy tone, which caused the both of us to scream with excitement as we mutually enjoyed the aftermath of spending the night with two ridiculously attractive bachelors.  As far as I knew, Kate had probably had the more eventful night, judging by the loopiness in her composure.

“Girl, tell me everything,” Kate exclaimed as she trailed behind me, her hands tugging one of mine as she pleaded like a spoiled toddler. 

“Literally nothing happened which’d even come close to surpassing your obvious night of debauchery.” I retorted playfully as Kate rolled her eyes, refusing to deny the obviously scandalous activities she’d taken part in.

“Seriously? If he’s seeing you again tonight that means something’s definitely happened!” Kate argued, a wide, knowing smile creasing her sleepy features. 

“Wanna know what we did, Kate?” I demanded playfully.  I was smiling. “We kissed. Once. It was probably because my breath smelled like fermenting shit and he didn't wanna accidentally catch Ebola if he chanced a second kiss!” 

Kate nodded sympathetically, to which I spun around and made my way towards my bedroom. 

“You didn’t make your way into my room, did you?” I yelled over my shoulder. 

“Nah; some of us actually wanted to get off the other night, and frankly, Ana, your room is a boner-killer.”   

“I take offense to that!” I retorted before kicking the door shut and plugging my phone in for the short hour I would have to rest before work that afternoon. 

Another day, another dollar.    


	9. Butt, Don't Fail Me Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You made me watch the goddamn movie again to write this fanfic
> 
> WHY 
> 
> I hope you appreciate the torture I put myself through to satisfy you sadistic fucks

                A helicopter.

                A real, mother-of-fucking helicopter.

                To be quite honest, I would’ve preferred to take a nap after the frustrating and long work day I’d been forced to take part in and was completely oblivious to what the night’s festivities might’ve had to offer.  The ride between my workplace (chauffeured by Taylor) to the landing pad had been somewhat of a rigorous and lengthy one, so I’d had plenty of time to contemplate just what the illusive Christian Grey might have possibly planned for us this evening.

                None of those possibilities involved a helicopter.

                The helicopter even had his name on it, goddamnit.  This was _his_ personal helicopter.  Not something that was rented; this was **_HIS_**.

                Jesus Christ even after Kate had insisted on letting me borrow an outfit of hers to wear for when I got out of work, I still felt as ordinary as the next girl.  I’m just glad I’d opted out of wearing heels…

                He was smiling like a big doofus, perhaps finding it hilarious that I was so star-struck by the understanding that one can _OWN_ a helicopter in the big city.

                Damn, rich people have it so good…

                “Good evening, Anna,” He declared proudly before turning on a heel and opening the helicopter door for me.  This was happening. I was actually gonna be riding in a helicopter.  Look at me now, haters!

                I climbed into the helicopter already feeling as though my heart was gonna burst in a moment’s notice…

                And then I noticed the fact that there was only room for two people on the helicopter.

                Taylor would be staying behind. And Christian would be piloting the helicopter.

                Was it too late to run away screaming?

                My voice was barely discernable from the amount of shock having taken over my system. “So, you have a flying license?”

                “Apparently.” He replied cheekily before leaning over and fastening the belts over my hips and shoulders one at a time.  I was quick to bat his efforts away, but he wouldn’t relinquish the straps until I was completely belted down.

                ‘ _Why is this the only time that you’re willing to belt me down out of all the circumstances I’d given you?_ ’ 

                “November one-two-two-four; Charlie Tango, ready to depart.” Christian bellowed into the radio.  Now he was just showing off.

                The radio was quick to respond in turn. “ _Roger that, Charlie Tango, your flight plan from Portland to Seattle is cleared.”_  

                  Hold the fuck up.

                “Seattle? We’re going to Seattle of Washington?”

                Christian smiled in response as though he’d asked ‘what’ three times and still hadn’t had a single idea as to what I’d said and was trying to laugh it off.  I could understand that, but at the same time I couldn’t help but think back to all the documentaries I’d listened to about girls being taken by their enigmatic lovers only to never be seen by the populace again.  Cars were a fairly simple vehicle to track down, I didn’t think helicopters played by the same rules.  The sky was a big place.

                The vibrations of the engine nearly caused me to scream with excitement as though about to ride a roller coaster before my face became absolutely fixed to the window.  The helicopter lifted as though it were weightless, and I could scarcely believe where I was right then and there.

                Not looking up at the helicopters and wondering what they might see when they look down,

                But in an actual helicopter looking down at the city in all its splendor.

                It almost seemed too beautiful to be real, and yet I knew that my brain could never conjure enough imagination to mind without some sort of reference.

                I wouldn’t have minded staying in that helicopter until the ambiance and the gentle vibrations of the seat eventually lulled me to sleep,  but we eventually reached our destination which was another skyscraper in the midst of Seattle, Washington.  ‘Escala’ shone proudly against the side of the building as the helicopter came to a reluctant, almost graceful, stop.  The silence which answered the engine being cut was almost unbearable as I removed the intercom headset from over my ears.  From so high above the city the highways below scarcely made a noise, and I was strangely enamored by that subtle concept.  Would I ever be given another opportunity to see the world as I did now? I felt like a god.

                Christian hadn’t spoken throughout the entire duration of the flight, having probably realized that I would pay very little attention to him while I stuck my face against the windows like a child peering out of a plane’s on their first flight.  He was careful to guide me into an elevator as a bout of dizziness overwhelmed me near to the point of stumbling over the evenly paved rooftop (Seriously, I could walk along ghetto sidewalks that are about as crooked and frequent as the teeth of a crack-head and not stub my toe or falter in the slightest, and yet I could fall on my ass like a newborn giraffe at the first instance of a perfectly linear surface? Why, me?  And I couldn’t even use the excuse that I was afraid of heights, because I haven’t ever even somewhat feared them.).

                This elevator ride was uneventful, which I was both relieved and disappointed by while I tried desperately to make myself just a little more presentable in the presence of such a wealthy environment.  I wasn’t even expected to take my shoes off!

                “Thirsty?”

                ‘ _Always, daddy._ ’ 

                “No, thank you,” I replied timidly as I glanced around the main room. 

                The best way I could describe this place was that it was…

                Artsy… very artsy… but also empty.  It needed a trampoline or an indoor swimming-pool or _something_.  The entire first floor of my house could’ve easily fit inside this condo with room to spare…

                What do wealthy people do with so much space? 

                There was a grand piano accentuating the furthermost area of the condo wherein the player might have a direct path to the kitchen-area which boasted a wide array of stainless steel attire and furniture. 

                “Do you play at all?” I found myself asking.  The silence still insisted on permeating the air no matter what I did to distract myself.  Even speaking through it felt artificial and stagnate.

                Under general circumstances, I would’ve begun trying to impress my potential interest with my somewhat decent piano playing (having taught myself to play by ear when I was a child), but somehow that felt inappropriate given the aura the massive entryway inflicted.  This place should’ve been filled with people; it was the only way to eliminate the massive bouts of awkward which continued to glare at me from every corner.  I wandered aimlessly into the kitchen until I sat at the granite table where Christian had set out two glasses of white wine.  The bittersweet scent clung to the air and I was almost tempted to drink the entire thing like a shot but held back (better to save that party trick for the bar, not a celebrity’s personal condo.).   

                A sheet of paper nearly glowed against the stone tabletop, a long essay of various terms and conditions prompting me to read the first few lines. 

                And just like the Apple terms and conditions, I was nearly driven to lunacy with the inability to give a shit regarding the intricate scenarios it revealed.

                “What’s this?” I asked softly, mentally amusing myself with the possibility that it might’ve been the receipt for the most expensive stripper on the planet.  Of course, it wasn’t, but it was a funny idea.

                “It’s a non-disclosure,” He declared grimly. “It basically means that you can’t discuss anything about us with anyone. I’m afraid my lawyer says so.”

                “Oh,” I replied nonchalantly. “Is that it? A’ight.” 

                After one final look-through of the contract for any potentially sinister details, I eventually concluded that this was what celebrities had to do in the rare circumstance where a lower-middle-class member managed to intrigue them enough to give them helicopter rides.  It made sense, in a way.

                The scrawl of my signature was a quick one before I handed the sheet back to Christian.  I wanted to steal the pen but held back.

                Wait.

                He’d been talking about a ‘contract’ since the beginning of their encounters.  Was this it? Could they fuck like rabbits now?

                “Sooo… what now?” I inquired nervously, feeling as though leaving for Christian’s instead of my apartment was a bad idea.  I could be sleeping right now… Or reading fanfiction…  

                A wry smile creased his features subtly, though I couldn’t tell whether he was entertained by the bluntness of my inquiry or by the sheer knowledge that I was somewhat uncomfortable.  Did he take pleasure in making me feel flustered all the time?  Maybe he thought it was amusing. 

                “Two things;…” He announced before sitting up and arcing so that he stood over me.  I suddenly felt quite small, but I was strangely alright with that.

                “I don’t ‘make love’,” He murmured in a low, gravelly tone. “I fuck.  Hard.”

                ‘ _Daaaaaaaaaammnnnn… RIP: my panties.’_

                “U-Uh-huh…” I muttered, realizing I should’ve probably sampled some of the wine he’d given me.  The shit was probably expensive. 

                And plus, I didn’t think I could deal with this amount of heat sober. 

                “Come.” He extended his hand out to me, which I took, but not before taking the glass into my other hand and taking a generous sip of it. 

                “Alright, _now_ , I’m ready,” I whispered determinedly, eliciting a smile from my peculiar suitor.

                He guided me deeper into the condo, to the point that I thought it might go on forever.  Perhaps that perspective was as a result of the wine taking effect.  

                “It’s just behind this door.” He announced after a while of wandering through the identically designed corridors. 

                “Neat,” I replied casually, watching him without reserve.  He seemed taken aback by the ease I radiated.

                “This is… my playroom.”

                “A very original title.” I giggled, trying to break the tension in the air.  It didn’t work.

                “It’s important that you know that you can leave at any time.” He declared. 

                This was the first time that evening that I noticed a red-flag in the way he was speaking.  The language he articulated was that of insecurity, maybe even anxiety, however the tone of voice which he used was uncharacteristically ominous.

                “Why, is there like Bronie shit in there?” I should’ve probably stopped joking around, but I’d already made peace with the fact that I was most likely going to die after being sarcastic at the wrong time, and I wasn’t about to ruin those chances.

                He produced a key from the pocket of his trousers, holding it skeptically in his fingers.  “I meant what I said.  The helicopter is on standby to take you wherever you want to go.”

                ‘ _Yea, and who’s gonna pilot that ride home, buddy?_ ’

                Should I start running now?  I was NOT gonna die like the white girl in the cliché horror film; not without a fight.  I thought back to where the kitchen was and where the wine-glass still waited.  If I was able to get to it I could break it and use the stem as a makeshift weapon against this creep who was about to show me his trophy room.

                No, sorry, his ‘ _Playroom’_.

                “Open the door.” My feet were already prepared to run back towards where we’d come from as the adrenaline coursed within me like a drug.  

                His gaze only left mine for a second to cram the key into its respective slot.  A brief twist allowed for the door to fall silently open.

                I prepared for the worst, already seeing red against the walls where the light from the door now filtered in.  He stepped in, but I held back, feeling that it was necessary to visualize what horrors might’ve been concealed behind that seemingly insignificant doorway.

                The lights fell open.

                My jaw gaped in horrified awe.

                I couldn’t control myself;             

                “Oh, _fuck_ yeah.”  

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you guys think!!! Onward into battle~!


End file.
